The Godborn

by Paul S. Kemp

  As the day wore on to afternoon, the hidden sun lightened the nearly impenetrable ink, turning it merely to oppressive darkness. Around midday, a high-pitched shriek sounded from somewhere out in the black, a terrified, distant wail that put Gerak in a crouch and sent his heart to pounding. He did not think it was human, and it was always difficult judging distance on the plains. It could have originated a bowshot away, or it could have originated half a league distant.

  Moving in a low crouch, he stationed himself behind a rotting broadleaf stump, sweaty hands around the shaft of his bow, and waited. The sound did not recur and he saw and heard nothing more to give him alarm. After calming himself, he renewed his trek.

  He walked all day, the wet ground pulling at his boots, as if the earth would suck him down under the sod. Several times he felt certain that eyes were upon him, hungry leers out in the dark, just beyond eyeshot. Always he would nock an arrow and put his back to a tree or rock, his senses alert to any sound or motion, but he never saw anything. Twice he doubled back, and once he hid in a ditch, his sword in hand, and lay in ambush, but nothing seemed to be following him.

  Or at least nothing he could see.

  He told himself that stress was pulling phantasms from his mind. He passed the first day out in the lonely dark without seeing another living creature, except once, a flight of pheasants far too distant to bother with an arrow. The absence of even small game did not bode well for what he might find in the wood.

  The rain relented by nightfall, and before the air turned once more from merely dark to total pitch he gathered kindling and wood and found a suitable campsite under a stand of pines that swayed in the rising wind. There was risk in a fire, but he needed the warmth and the light. Besides, he’d scratch out a fire pit so the flames wouldn’t be visible from too far away—one benefit of the shadowed air.

  With his sword he scraped a fire pit out of the wet sod. The kindling resisted his flint and steel but he eventually won it over, and a fitful, smoky fire provided a dim counterpoint to the night. He had never been so happy before in his life to see flames.

  He stripped off his pack, staked up the tarp that would serve as his tent, and sat before the flames for a time, thinking, trying to keep from shivering. He needed to dry out his cloak, so he shed it and laid it out near the fire.

  Some kind of animal brayed in the distance. Overhead, he heard the flap of wings, large wings. Furtive movement at the edge of the firelight drew his eye, a small night creature that vanished before he could nock an arrow or note its shape.

  Sitting out there alone, he turned maudlin. He thought of his father, Fairelm, the cottage, Elle, the baby. He realized that he was attached to the farm because it had been his parent’s. And that was not enough of a reason to stay. Sembia was no place to raise a child. The land did not belong to men anymore, not really. It belonged to the darkness, and was no place for his family. Staring into the fire, he decided then and there that he would take Elle and the baby out of Sembia.

  Having made the decision, he felt a weight come off him. He considered heading back to the cottage first thing in the morning, but decided against it. He was only a half day away from the woods where he hoped to take a stag. It would take some time for him and Elle to gather up their things and sell what they couldn’t carry. In the interim, they’d have need for some meat.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, and his stomach echoed the sound. He thought of just enduring it—he’d gone without food often enough in recent years—but he did not relish the thought of going to sleep hungry. Besides, he’d need energy tomorrow. He remembered whatever small creature had crept up on his campfire, the pheasants he’d seen in the air. There was food out there. He just had to find it.

  His mind made up, he threw enough wood on the fire to keep it burning for an hour or two and stalked off into the plains. He didn’t wander far, wanting to keep the fire visible at all times.

  Selûne was not visible through the swirl of clouds. Instead, her light created only a dim shapeless yellow smear in the sky, but once his eyes adjusted it was enough for him to see by. He realized that he had not had a clear view of the moon in many years. He would do better by his child.

  In time he reached a low-lying area of tall whipgrass that looked promising. Knifewing pheasants were migrating south across the Inner Sea, and the birds roosted in whipgrass, feeding on the seeds, grasshoppers, and crickets. He’d seen a flock earlier in the day. They would be grounded for the night.

  The birds were notoriously keen eared, so he knew he would not be able to sneak up on one and take it while it nested. He’d just have to be ready when they went airborne. Taking a shot in the dark would be difficult, but the moonlight, feeble as it was, would help. And Tymora smiled on the brash.

  He started forward into the grass, holding his bow in one hand, two fowl-tipped arrows in the other. The ground softened as he advanced and he sometimes skirted puddles. Moving slowly, he imitated the pheasants’ ground coo—his father had taught it to him as a boy—and listened for a response. Eventually soft coos and a rustle of wings answered him.

  Three, maybe four knifewings were near.

  He moved closer to the sound, gliding through the terrain like a ghost, and nocked both fowling arrows. He eyed the sky. The moon lightened the clouds enough to provide some contrast with the rest of the darkness. Estimating the location of the pheasants, he circled around to give himself a shooting angle against the light part of the sky.

  Ready, he gave a sudden, sharp whoop that sounded perilously loud in the dark.

  Wings flapped and five startled knifewings launched into the air. He took aim, the two arrows each held between a pair of fingers, tracking their motion. He waited for the birds to rise high enough against the sky to give him a clear shot. When they did, he targeted two near each other, adjusted his finger pressure to alter trajectories, and let fly. The arrows hissed through the rain and struck. Feathers flew and both birds spiraled to the ground while the other three vanished into the night.

  Grinning, and pleased to have lost none of his accuracy, Gerak kept his eyes on the exact spot they fell and hurried through the grass. Despite the darkness, he found them after a short search. He’d hit both in the body and both had died instantly. No need to wring necks.

  He carefully withdrew his arrows from the carcasses, wiped the small amount of blood clean on the grass, and replaced the arrows in his quiver. He carried only four fowling arrows and could not afford to lose them. Grabbing both birds by the neck, he stood and tried to get his bearings from the fire.

  He didn’t see it. Fear tightened his chest. Thunder rumbled, closer now, and a light rain started to fall. He imagined the precipitation putting out his fire, leaving him stranded on the plains until morning, and the fear he felt threatened to turn to panic.

  He cursed, turned a circle, the birds dangling futilely from his fist. He wasn’t sure which direction his camp was. He’d gotten turned around when he’d angled himself to take the shot and now he wasn’t sure.

  He needed to get to some higher ground and to do so fast. The rain was picking up. He eyed the terrain, spotted a rise capped with the twisted, malformed trunks of mature broadleaf trees, and tore off for it. As he ran, he nearly lost a boot to the muck.

  He climbed the rise, heart racing, and looked around.

  There! He saw the glow of his fire, maybe two bowshots distant.

  He did not realize he had come so far.

  He sagged with relief, hands on his knees. His heart started to slow, his breathing to grow more regular. His legs felt watery under him. And that was when he noticed it.

  The rain had sputtered out and the plains were quiet as a grave. Even the night insects had fallen silent.

  His breathing sounded loud in his ears, too loud. He remembered the whoop he’d used to startle the pheasants. The sound must have been audible for half a league.

  He cursed in a whisper.

  He edged toward the broadleaf, wanting to put some
thing at his back, feeling terribly exposed atop the rise. He inhaled deeply, held his breath, remained still, and focused his hearing.

  Nothing.

  A breeze from the east kicked up, carrying the faint scent of putrid meat—a dead animal, maybe, or so he hoped.

  How had he missed it before?

  Because the wind changed.

  “Damn it,” he said. A rotting animal would attract predators.

  Thunder rumbled again, a promise of renewed rain. He looked at the glow of his fire and considered making a run for it. A natural predator would avoid a fire.

  But not all predators on the plains were natural.

  The wind gusted, causing the whipgrass to whisper, the leaves of the broadleaf to hiss, the limbs to creak.

  A deep-throated bellow sounded from out in the darkness to his right, a wet snarl that reminded him of a rooting pig. His heart leaped against his ribs and the sound of flapping wings sounded from all around as two-score startled knifewings rose into the air. He found it hard to breathe. His muscles failed him, left him standing still in the dark, exposed, alone atop the rise. Sweat ran in cold rivulets down his back.

  Whatever had made that sound might be able to see him, to smell him.

  Move! His mind screamed. Move!

  He felt heavy footsteps thudding into the sod, out there in the dark. He had no idea what it could be, but his mind summoned nightmares. He knew that aberrant creatures stalked Sembia’s plains, horrors that no man should see. A second grunt carried through the darkness, closer this time, and punctuated with wet inhalations, the sound of a creature with a scent.

  His scent.

  It had him.

  Terror freed him at last. Fueled by adrenaline, he turned and leaped, grabbed hold of the lowest branch on the broadleaf, and scrambled up. The sound of his boots on the trunk, his soft grunts of exertion, sounded like shouts in his ears.

  The creature heard him, for it bellowed loudly, and the heavy tread of its footsteps bounded toward him. He climbed a few limbs higher, frantic, awkward, catching scrapes and cuts in his haste, then froze, afraid to make more noise. He was not safe in a tree, not for long. He knew that.

  He got his feet as steady as he could on a thick limb, clutched his bow in a sweaty palm, and fumbled for one of his arrows. His breath would not slow down. It was loud, too loud. His heart thudded in his chest so hard he swore he could hear it through his ribs.

  A large form lumbered out of darkness on two legs, a misshapen bulk half again as tall as a man, and thudded into the broadleaf. The impact caused the tree to shiver, sent a shower of leaves and seed pods earthward, and nearly dislodged Gerak. He caught himself only by firing his nocked arrow wildly as he grabbed for a limb. The creature seemed not to notice the pointed shaft that stuck in the earth near its feet.

  In shape, it looked vaguely human, and Gerak wondered if it weren’t some kind of troll. Folds of flabby skin drooped from its obese arms, legs, and mid-section. Torn, muddy rags covered skin the sallow yellow of an old bruise. Long, lank hair hung from the creature’s head, a head far too small for the rest of the bloated body, like capping a bucket with a sewing thimble.

  It circled the base of the tree, sniffing the ground, raising its face to the sky to sniff the air. Small, dark eyes looked out from a pinched face. Its mouth looked malformed, the lips stretched and hugely swollen.

  Gerak hoped that the foliage and the darkness hid him from the creature. He dared not reach for another arrow, not with the creature right below him. It would see the movement.

  Another low growl. The creature’s stink, like spoiled milk, made Gerak wince. It fell to all fours and sniffed the bole of the tree where Gerak had gone up.

  Gerak’s breath came fast.

  Still sniffing, the creature got to its hind legs and put distended hands on the tree, as if it would climb. Its tiny eyes, nearly invisible in the flabby folds of its face, started to work their way up the tree trunk.

  Gerak tried to shrink into himself, tried to find calm, and failed at both. He moved his hand slowly, so slowly, for his quiver.

  As his fingers closed on the fletching, the creature froze, cocked its head, and gave a curious grunt. It dropped back to all fours. An eager snort escaped it, and its sniffing took on a note of urgency. It scrabbled around the bole of the tree, moved away a couple paces, its face to the wet earth. When it reached the pheasants—the pheasants Gerak had dropped in his panic—it let out a roar of pleasure and seized both in its sausage-like fingers, then began shoving them into its mouth, feathers, bones, and all.

  The wet slobbering and satisfied grunts of the creature, together with the wet cracking of the bird carcasses, made Gerak nauseous. Still, he took the opportunity to pull an arrow, nock it, and draw. He sighted at the back of the creature’s thick neck, figuring he could sever the spine if not kill it outright. Something on its neck caught his eye: a leather lanyard, like a necklace. He hesitated, struck by the oddness of its presence. The creature bounded a few steps away, perhaps searching for more pheasant, and its movement took it clear of Gerak’s firing line. The boughs of the broadleaf blocked the shot.

  Moving slowly, his eyes fixed on the wrinkles of the creature’s neck; he shifted his position. The limb creaked under his feet. The creature’s head jerked up, wide nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air. Gerak froze awkwardly, the muscles of his calf already starting to scream. Sweat oozed from his pores. He still did not have a good shot. He might have to just risk shifting position again.

  The creature growled, a deep wet sound. The tone of it, calculating, suspicious, put Gerak’s hair on end.

  He’d get only one shot, if that. He sighted along the arrow’s shaft, waited for the creature to move into position.

  It held its head cocked, lank hair spilling to the side. It was listening. It shifted on its weight, its feet sinking into the soft earth.

  A single loud pop from the right—the wet wood from Gerak’s distant fire, caused the creature to snort and Gerak to start. The creature roared and tore off in the direction of Gerak’s camp, the stumps of its feet puckering the sod as it went.

  Gerak did not hesitate. The moment the creature disappeared into the night, he dropped from the tree, bow in hand, and ran in the opposite direction of the camp until he reached a natural ditch. He slid into it, soaking his clothes in mud and organic stink—it would help mask his smell—and remained still.

  The creature’s roars carried across the plains. A shower of sparks went up from the area of the campsite, the creature’s form a frenzied silhouette in the dim light of the floating embers. It was destroying the camp.

  He cursed, thinking of his lost gear, thinking of Elle’s locket still sitting in the pocket of his cloak.

  The creature rampaged through his camp for a time and then the plains once more fell silent. To be safe, Gerak waited another half hour, cold and shivering. All remained quiet. He crept out of the ditch and ran in a crouch for the campsite.

  He didn’t care about anything there except Elle’s locket.

  Brennus stood in the doorway of his scrying chamber. A tarnished, solid silver scrying cube, two paces wide on each side, situated in the center of the round vaulted room. Shadows curled around the cube in thin wisps. The dim light of the Tears of Selûne, their glow diffused by the shadowed air of Sakkors enclave, gleamed feebly through the vaulted, glassteel roof.

  His homunculi, tiny twin constructs made from dead flesh and Brennus’s own blood, climbed down his robes from their usual perch on his shoulders and pelted across the chamber ahead of him. They took turns tripping each other, clambering over one another in their haste, a chaotic ball of leathery gray skin, thin limbs, high-pitched expletives, and squeals of outrage.

  Smiling, Brennus followed them until he stood before the cube. In his hand he held his dead mother’s platinum necklace. He’d found it a hundred years earlier, and plumbing its mystery had been his obsession ever since. Her ghost haunted his thoughts, her voice whispering two wor
ds in his mind over and over.

  Avenge me .

  Again and again over the decades he returned to his scrying cube, his divinations, seeking a way, any way, to make his brother, Rivalen, pay for the murder of their mother. But always the exercise ended in frustration. Rivalen was too powerful for Brennus to confront.

  Brennus had caught hints of a plan by Mask to foil Shar—and anything that hurt Shar would also hurt Rivalen—but they remained only hints. He couldn’t see how things fit together. He’d thought for a long time that Erevis Cale’s son by Varra would play some role, but the son had seemingly vanished from the multiverse. Brennus had watched Varra, pregnant with the boy, disappear from the forest meadow and he’d never been able to locate her. One hundred years had passed since then. Varra and the child would be dead by now. He thought all of it might have some connection to the mysterious Abbey of the Rose, a temple to Amaunator supposedly hidden somewhere in the Thunder Peaks. After all, Erevis Cale had been allied with worshipers of Amaunator at the Battle of Sakkors. But Brennus had never been able to divine the location of any temple in the Thunder Peaks, and now he wondered if the Abbey of the Rose wasn’t a myth.

  So, with nothing else to go on, Brennus was reduced to compulsively spying on his brother, waiting and hoping for an opportunity, a moment of vulnerability, that he suspected would never come.

  “Look now?” asked his homunculi, their two voices synchronous.

  “Yes.”

  The homunculi squeaked with delight and clambered up his cloak, their tiny claws snagging but not harming the magical fabric. They took their usual station, one on each of his shoulders, bookends to his head.

  “Show, show,” they said.

  Brennus put a hand on the smooth, cool face of the scrying cube and uttered the words to a divination. Goaded by the magic, the smears of tarnish began a slow swirl. Abruptly the face of the cube took on dimension, depth. The swirls and whorls of black constituted themselves into recognizable shapes.